it's only oblivion
by rockpaperscissor
Summary: "God does not recycle terminology," Castiel says, and his quiet voice thunders in the cramped room with a grim, bitter finality.


_A/N: Just to prove that I did write something this year (other than OoM, which took me a year to start and a week to actually finish). This was for a hurt/comfort meme on livejournal - a first for me (and probably the last, to be honest) - inspired by a prompt which will become very clear as you read. Set in Season 7, right after There Will Be Blood._

_It's good to write Sam again. Funny how much easier he is to write... although I have to admit the premiere didn't do much to endear him to me, even if I might understand his reaction._

* * *

They walk back to the cabin in silence.

He sits down. A vague part of Sam recognizes that he's supposed to be feeling something right now. Elation, maybe. Vestiges of being scared shitless. Some kind of worry for what Bobby's planning to do, now that he somehow got himself out and about.

Something.

But he doesn't feel any of that. Just tired. Overwhelmed.

…Funny, really. With as many times as the world has been on the brink of collapse, you'd think it'd get old at some point. Easier, at least.

Although, maybe it's a good thing for everyone that it doesn't.

"So let's recap," says his brother as he's making a beeline for the fridge. "Shall we."

Sam fumbles the beer bottle flung at him. At least Dean's not a stingy alcoholic, a distant part of him thinks acerbically. The rest of him is just glad for the beer.

"Go ahead," he says, and takes his out his handy bottle-opener-slash-flashlight keychain (three ninety-five, gas station in Mattoon, Illinois). The bottle opens with a hiss, and he curses, jumping up as the beer foams over in his lap. "_Goddamn it Dean._"

Dean's dry chuckle, rare and welcome as it always is these days, can really go fuck itself. "Stop peeing yourself, Sammy," he says, helpfully flinging at Sam a towel.

"Shut up." Sam dabs at himself and it's completely useless.

"You shut up," his brother replies readily. "Anyway," he says, and Sam can hear the not-quite-there smile falling right off his face. "Like I was saying." He stops.

After a moment, Sam looks up. "Dean?"

The older Winchester shakes his head, snapping out of whatever reverie he was in.

That happens too often these days.

He clears his throat. "Right. So. Leviathan slaying recipe. We've got blood from the alpha, blood from an angel, and kind-of-not-really blood from the asshole king of demons. Three ingredients down. With me so far?"

His jeans are wet, sticky and a lost cause for the moment. Sam tosses the damp towel to the equally damp armchair and wipes his hands dry. He plays along. "Yeah, with you."

"Good. Well," Dean says, "basically, we have everything we need for the only weapon that can kill Dick and strike a permanent blow against the freaking Leviathans – except, oh, right, the weapon itself. Which is not good – you get why this is not good, right Sam? Not only are we running out on time here, but we have no idea where to even start looking for the bone of someone righteous. We have dip but no nachos, Sam, and if we don't get nachos we're _toast_."

Sam grimaces, gingerly sips at his still-foaming beer. It spills unto his fingers but it's past time to give a crap. "Please don't compare someone's righteous bone to food."

"Right, sorry."

He sighs and sits on other sofa next to his brother. "You're sure there isn't anything in the –"

Dean fiddles with his beer absently, interrupts with a testy, "I'm sure, I'm sure, 'course I'm sure." He brings the bottle to his lips and leaves it there, almost seems to forget about it as he makes a face and remarks, "You'd really think a lump of that size would translate to more than one frigging sentence, wouldn't you? I mean, so much for helpful, God, thanks, thanks for that, we're freaking screwed because you couldn't bother to write in small legible letters how we're supposed to save humanity against monsters escaping your trashcan."

Sam takes a pull. Looks considerately through the mouth of his bottle. "I guess it's better than nothing," he offers, emptily. "Least we have something to go on."

"Do we?" Dean raises an eyebrow at him. Sam strongly dislikes when Dean does that. "Do we, though? You happen to know what the hell 'righteous' means, whose definition are we using for that? I mean, honestly. Is it a specific righteous person, or are we just supposed to go to some saintly graveyard and start shopping?" He takes a swig, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pauses. "…Maybe it's a metaphor."

"I'm pretty sure bone means bone in this case, Dean." He rolls his eyes and knocks back another swallow.

Dean frowns thoughtfully, opens his mouth.

"No," Sam cuts him off right away. "It's not an ancient God penis joke."

His brother's mouth abruptly closes.

"It could have been," he mutters grumpily, and slants bonelessly across the small sofa. His head craned back close to Sam's, he frowns at the ceiling, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.

"It really couldn't have," Sam says definitively. He takes in a sigh and mimics his brother's posture. The ceiling could probably use a few less holes in it, he thinks vaguely.

He drinks some more, wipes his mouth with a sleeve the way Dean would approve of if he cared to notice. Sam's usually better than that, but right now he really couldn't care less. "I just wish we had a way of knowing whether we're on the right track," he sighs. "Or maybe just a way of getting _to_ some kind of track in the first place."

Dean glances over and raises an eyebrow. Again.

"Oh," he says, with that hopeless smirk of his that Sam also hates, "you mean, you wish we had, like, some kind of authority on God? Like, say, some kind of a loopy, unreliable angel?"

Sam has a bad feeling about this. "Uh I guess – " Sam says, when Dean starts to bellow, "HEY! HEY CAS! CASTIEL! GET OVER HERE, YOU ASSHOLE!"

When did Dean manage to slip another drink past him? Sam thought he'd gotten better about catching his brother in the act. He pulls at Dean's arm wearily. "C'mon Dean," he says, "he's not going to –"

But then there's a familiar flutter. Sam resists the very strong urge to smack his forehead.

Or Dean's forehead.

"Oh hey Dean, hey Sam," Cas greets them, his eyes all too wide and all too bright on his face. His smile is cheerful, unburdened, as it usually is these days. Sam would envy him for it, except he knows it's just another symptom of how wrong everything is.

"Hi Cas," Sam says automatically, standing awkwardly and trying hard not to squirm under the angel's open gaze. He's yet to get used to this Cas - the Cas who's not all there and who doesn't really want to be, the Cas his friend became when he took on Sam's pain, Sam's hell. Sam's brokenness.

…It's stupid. Cas broke his wall in the first place. Sam doesn't owe him anything. Sam's never _asked_ him for anything.

– _get him out, someone, anyone, please, please, just bring him back, just bring Dean back –_

Or, well. It's been a long time, anyway.

"Hey Cas," Dean says, in that deceptively light voice of his that means he can't wait to tear someone apart. "Where you been?"

"Nature." Cas says it in the same way someone else might say 'Tijuana' or 'Nantucket.' "Watching my Father's miracles. Hummingbirds, in particular."

"Hummingbirds," Dean repeats.

He nods. "I find that nothing encapsulates the magnificence of motion as they do," the angel explains, earnest. "Although fingers serve the purpose nearly as well." He holds his hand out in front of his face, a look of wonder stealing across him as he carefully flexes his pinky back and forth. "Amazing," he sighs in evident admiration.

He glances at them, his blue eyes almost seeming to glow. Sam's stomach dropped. "Have you ever stopped to consider just how miraculous movement is? The very ability of matter to change position is nothing short of fascinating." He grins. "And don't even get me started on the concept of voluntary movement," he chuckles, shaking his head.

They stare.

"…I... see," Sam says.

And Castiel stops… whatever it is he's doing. Contemplating the wonders of his pinky, Sam supposes. He cocks his head to the side, looking pensive.

"Your face isn't quite small enough to hide your discomfort, Sam," he remarks at last. "In fact I would say it's rather the opposite."

Right. "Thanks," Sam says sourly, and looks to his brother, expecting to see the usual signs of amusement, or (hopefully) some wry glance of solidarity.

Instead, however, he encounters a grimness he instantly dislikes. "Cas," Dean says, no trace of alcohol remaining in his voice. His mouth is a stiff and rigid line. "We need your help."

Castiel looks back down at his fingers, flexing them slowly back and forth. All of a sudden Sam's throat feels tight for no reason he can explain. "I never much understood the human fascination with television," he says unconcernedly. "Granted, I am also concerned about Meredith and Derek's relationship, and would like to find out whether Owen will rescue Christina and so rekindle their love, but there must be better ways to spend one's time than in front of a glass box, however entertaining it is."

"How do you watch TV?" Sam wonders, perplexed, but Dean seems to have no such thoughts.

Sam's brother leans forward, resting his locked hands on his knees. "Focus, Cas. Leave your pothead Spock act for later, we need answers now," he says impatiently. "Who's the righteous man? How do we get his bones?"

The angel doesn't move his gaze from his hand, but there's an obvious anxious tension stiffening his body. "The storyline has been somewhat lacking for the past few seasons," he says quickly, "and yet I still find the acting compensates –"

"Just cut it with the crap, douchebag!" Dean snaps, standing.

"Dean…"

"Shut up, Sam. Well? Who is it, Cas? What are we supposed to do?"

Cas's outstretched hand slowly falls to his side. His mouth quirks jerkily, as if to talk, as if to frown.

Funny, but Cas suddenly looks… small. Too small for the trench coat, too small for the room. His shoulders go rigid, a barely-discernible tremble running through them.

"I don't want to," he says, a little boy hiding behind his mom's skirts.

"Tough luck, we don't care what you want," Dean says harshly. "How do we find the righteous man?"

A moment passes in silence. Castiel seems to slowly come to a decision; he straightens, tremor stilling, hands clenched at his sides. He eyes them both, one at a time, and Sam suddenly remembers when they first met, the feeling of encountering a nuclear warhead , except that nuclear warhead wore a trench coat and a mouth that never smiled and was all but matter of course about using his power.

It's the same angel before them now.

"God does not recycle terminology," he says, and his quiet voice thunders in the cramped room with a grim, bitter finality. "The righteous man is who he has always been."

Sam feels his blood freeze in his veins. _No._

And Dean, of course – stubborn, dependable, thickheaded Dean – has to have it all spelled out for him, has to actually ask –

"What the heck does that mean?"

Castiel meets Sam's gaze. Sam can only stare back, horrified, denials and shouts captured and caught somewhere in his lungs.

Something passes between them. Understanding, Sam thinks. Or maybe just preemptive grief.

Abruptly the moment's gone. Castiel shrinks before their eyes. "I'm sorry," he tells them, and just as quickly, disappears.

They stare at the empty space he leaves.

Sam bites his lip. A part of him can't help but understand. A part of him - a small, weak, cowardly part of Sam – whispers _no wait, please, take me with you, I don't want to have to see this – I don't want to have to tell him –_

The rest of him has never hated Castiel quite as much as it does now.

Dean whirls to face him, angry. "What the fuck," he says, freckles dancing on his pale cheeks.

And Sam knows Dean already knows.

But there is no choice. There is no other way.

There's no one else to say what has to be said.

The blurry room quivers, but Sam doesn't rub his eyes. He doesn't really want to see.

"You, Dean," he says, his words a noose around his throat – around both their throats. "It's you."

0000

There's a moment where Dean doesn't seem to breathe. He stares back at Sam, eyes widening, eyes wild, eyes frantic and so far away from a smile.

"But I," he starts, stutters. "But I'm not –"

His face crumples.

"…Fuck," he chokes out. "Fuck." He covers his mouth with a shaking hand. His green eyes shimmer in the lamplight when he tears them away from Sam's. "_Fuck_."

"Dean," Sam says, pained, but he doesn't know what else to say. If there is anything that can be said, now.

His brother sits slowly on the floor, back against the sofa, forehead pressed against his knees. He grips his short hair with white-knuckled fists. "Fuck, Sammy," he says through his jeans, voice breaking in half, broad shoulders lost in a tremor.

And the thing is, Sam doesn't know what's wrong, exactly. He doesn't know whether it's that Dean believes he can't possibly be the righteous man after everything he's done, or that he's reliving hell and its tortures in his head, or if he's just wondering how the fuck you're supposed to take a bone from someone who isn't dead. Sam doesn't know which would be more heartbreaking, which would be more infuriating.

It doesn't matter. Sam sits next to his brother, allowing no rifts, no gaps between them because there can't be any, have been enough of them already. He takes Dean by the curve of his shaking shoulder and brings his head in close, his palm firm against the stubborn heat of Dean's neck and not letting go for anything. Dean at first resists, because that's what he does, but Sam doesn't let him win because that's what _he _does and so Dean eventually gives in, short hair brushing roughly against Sam's nose.

He doesn't know what to say. If there's anything that can be said anymore.

But his brother is shaking under his hand, so Sam swallows hard and whispers, "It'll be okay, Dean," hoping to God he isn't lying.

* * *

His brother sleeps restlessly, kicking at the sheets with a wretched grimace on his face. While Sam greatly prefers this to when Dean sleeps like a log (Sam would rather he have nightmares because then Sam can be sure he's alive) but Dean is enough pain when he's awake; Sam presses a hand to Dean's clammy forehead, and his brother stills.

He keeps it there, having perfected the skill of typing one-handed early on in his Stanford years. It's the least he can do, the only thing he can do. Sam has to shoulder what burdens he can.

He knows Dean would appreciate it, if he could bring himself to think of it.

There's no question of pain, or sacrifice. Every road is a wrong one. It's a nightmarish choice to make, which bone your brother can stand to lose most, which would be enough of a weapon and leave him with a shot at recovery.

Sam hates even the thought of incapacitating his brother. It's not just that Dean had been through more than anyone should, as if that's not bad enough. It's that however messed up it is, Dean's identity has always been wrapped up in being useful. Losing an arm, a leg… Sam's sure Dean won't argue against it, but he doesn't know if Dean could handle the consequences. The after.

Sam can barely stand the idea himself.

It isn't practical, in any case. Dean's one of the only fighters their team's got; he has to be functional in order to fight Dick. There is no other way.

Sam does research. Scours websites. It'll have to be a rib, he realizes early on, since limbs are out of the question and it has to be a bone big enough to stick someone with. Probably won't be enough to scratch Dick with a toe.

Something catches in his throat. He wipes at his eyes and hates himself.

It's not funny. None of this is.

* * *

Sam doesn't remember the last time Dean slept so much. He's glad for it – will take whatever he can get, whatever Dean can get. He just wants to have everything ready for when Dean wakes up.

If he does. Sam's still holding out the absurd hope he doesn't, that they'll stay like this forever, the light from the computer a soft cool haze on his hand, Dean's lashes fluttering restlessly in his sleep.

Time passes. And since life is the universe's great tragedy, Dean wakes up.

Sam feels it when the foot against his leg jerks, then goes rigid. He looks down. The familiar green eyes are open and unseeing, staring blankly at the wall.

He clears his throat, doesn't know how to begin. "Hi," he says, lamely.

Dean's eyes flicker up to him. There's nothing in them.

Sam blinks, unnerved by the silence. "I called one of Dad's old contacts," he says quickly, stumbling on his words. "He's a surgeon. Says he can do it." He takes a breath, takes the plunge. "Rib - rib removal, I mean. He says he can do it."

Dean says nothing.

He feels his eyes start to sting again. His mouth twitches involuntarily. He bites it into compliance. "I – I thought, you know," he says desperately, "it has to be big enough, right, big enough to be a weapon, and – and ribs are pretty sharp, and it's not like you really need your floating ribs, they're, they're just remnants, just functional as supports – and this way, and this way you could still fight." He swallows, reins in the urge to blubber. "It's… it's been done before," he says throatily. "It's – it's kinda funny actually, some women do it because they – so they can have an hourglass figure. It's even under the category of cosmetic surgery. So – so, you'll be okay, see."

Dean sits up slowly. He takes a long breath. Holds it for fifteen seconds. Sam counts.

And then he exhales.

"That doesn't sound so bad," he says.

…Sam loves his brother. He loves his brother so fucking much.

* * *

The ride to Wisconsin is filled with silences.

They do talk, a bit; Dean puts up a brave front as usual, smirking at Sam and making fun of whatever he can think of, putting extra creamer in Sam's coffee because he knows Sam'll give him hell for it. Sam tries to do that, the usual, tries to give back as good as he gets – it's what Dean needs, so he doesn't begrudge it, but he does find it difficult to put any heart into it. He'd always been a horrible actor – always drew his lines out a little too long, took too much time to say what he was supposed to. Dean doesn't miss it, never misses it, but he takes what Sam has to offer and smooths it out, ironing over the cracks and wrinkles with another picture-perfect grin.

They don't talk about _it,_ of course, although it circles the spaces between them like a vulture in wait and every once in a while they lapse into a long silence where they both think about the same thing and don't meet each other's eyes.

And they don't say a word.

But it can't be avoided for long. Dr. Nguyen (Matt, he says to call him) greets them at his empty clinic with a grim face.

"You realize these are not optimal conditions, right?" he says, handing Dean a hospital gown from the shelf. "We aren't in a hospital. Our resources are limited. We have only one nurse and no other surgeon on hand, let alone an anesthesiologist, so I can only administer localized anesthesia." He meets Dean's gaze. "I'm afraid that means you _will _be awake, Dean. Do you understand?"

Any other time, Dean would rebel against the inherent condescension, but instead he just swallows, and tries on an almost smirk. "Got it, Doc."

Nguyen doesn't waver. "This is a complicated surgery in the best of times, which clearly these aren't. There are risks both during and after the surgery of nerve damage, hemorrhaging and pneumonia, though we will do our best to minimize those." He sighs. "I've studied the procedure thoroughly and, if you'll allow me, I am in fact very good at my job. The fact remains, however, that this operation is very unusual and I have little first-hand experience with this sort of surgery."

Dean looks taken aback. Sam grabs on to the back material of his coat, half-afraid he might dash away. "We understand," he says for the both of them.

Nguyen looks them over. "I suppose you do," he half says, half mutters to himself. "Now," he raises his voice, "I understand you only need a fragment of the rib? If so, it might be a little easier on you, post surgery - we can just extract the front part of the twelfth rib, and leave you the back end for stability."

"That's fine," Sam says.

He eyes them both, looking for something. Whatever he finds makes him sigh again. "It won't be easy, and there will be an extensive recovery period, but you will be fine," he tells Dean. "Trust me. You will be fine."

"Whatever you say," Dean says, and his imitation of a smile is flimsy at best.

Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezes gently. "Thanks, Matt. Do what you can."

Matt looks at him. "I just hope it's worth it."

Dean shivers. Sam doesn't move his hand.

"It will be," he says, and wills it to be true.

* * *

Dean looks thin in the blue gown.

"Hey," Sam says, leaning against the counter. "How're you doing?"

Dean turns to face him. His feet look cold, a pale white against the neat wooden floor. It's weird. Dean almost never walks around barefoot.

"Peachy," he says. His laughter is dry, uncontrolled. He stops abruptly, covers his mouth as if to keep something in. "Just peachy."

Sam just aches. "You heard the doc," he says, going for light. They could use light, now. "You're in good hands."

Dean's hand drops to his side. "Yeah," he replies. His mouth quirks. "I just… I just thought, y'know. I thought I was done with this."

Sam swallows. He means hell. He thought he was done with hell. With being taken apart. With watching himself being taken apart.

He thought he was done.

Sam's throat closes. He has to force his words out. "You are," he says, voice on the edge of breaking. "Just – just this, and you're done."

And Dean smiles at him. "Yeah?"

Sam's not going to cry. "I promise you, Dean," he says fiercely. His hands clench, and he thinks to reach out but thinks better of it. Dean looks too thin. "I promise you. You're done, you're done. "

Dean says nothing for a while. Sam can't tell if he believes him. He just stands there, looking resigned, looking alone.

It's all right, Sam thinks. He'll just have to prove it.

He's okay with that.

* * *

They're waiting for Matt to finish prepping the operating room when Dean's face suddenly pulls into a frown. He looks Sam up and down, and the wrinkle between his eyes becomes a furrow as he asks, "What are you wearing?"

Sam snaps out of his trance. "Hm?" he says intelligently. Then looks down at himself. "Oh. Scrubs."

"I can see that, dumbass. I meant why."

Sam stares at him blankly. "My jeans still have beer on them," he says.

His brother looks baffled. "What does that have to do with anything?"

It's Sam's turn to frown. "Because you can't wear dirty jeans in operating rooms, obviously," he says impatiently, tapping his fingers nervously against the window.

"But –"

Sam doesn't even bother looking at him as he interrupts, "Don't be stupid, of course I'm coming in with you."

There's a short silence.

"Oh," Dean says. He looks like he's not sure whether to be angry or relieved.

"Idiot," Sam says.

* * *

Sam talks to Dean the entire time, holding his hand.


End file.
